


Last, Best Purpose

by JoCarthage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my response to the following prompt on the LJ kink-meme: </p><p>Dean says yes/is forced to say yes/somehow becomes possessed by Michael. Michael has wanted Castiel for a long time, so he hunts the other angel down. Knowing that Dean and Cas love each other, Michael at first tries to seduce Cas. Castiel refuses him, fights him, but he’s worried about hurting Dean, and is no match for the archangel. In the end, Michael ends up just taking what he wants and rapes Castiel. </p><p>What I’d really really want is for this to be mainly from Dean’s point of view; he’s aware of what’s happening, fighting for control over his body, but is unable to stop Michael using Dean’s body to rape and hurt Castiel, the one Dean loves. Please have Castiel still struggle and try to get away long after he realizes it’s pointless. He’s not enjoying this in any way, especially how Michael uses Dean’s body to do this. </p><p>BONUS: If Cas at some point tries to get through to Dean, that he can stop this, and Michael tells him that Dean can’t hear him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last, Best Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time posting in an SPN kinkmeme, so please excuse the newbiness. All 3 warnings above (Non-Con, Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence) are as serious as cancer. I don't want anyone hurt by my words.
> 
> Also, come say hi on tumblr! I'm generally at jocarthage.tumblr.com

Dean was not out of total control. His hands, his mouth, his cock: they were all clearly Michael's. His heart, no longer beating since he'd traded his agency for his brother's life: Michael's. His lungs, his hair, the soles of his feet (worn ragged by an Archangel could care less about gravel and grainy dirt): Michael's.

But there were tiny pieces, slivers of himself that he could control. The edge of his pinky finger. A muscle in his face. A tiny portion of his foot. Dean held onto those slight slips in Michael's control, in his overwhelming power. He tuned out the waves of destruction: the towns cleansed of pre-teen witches, the slums razed, the growing fields turned-over and left fallow by the rising whip of Michael's acre-wide wings.

Dean was subsumed but rose to the surface at the oddest moments: Michael staring into the eyes of a child as he burned her family down (Dean sunk himself back down as quickly as he could); miles above the sea, yanking a tsunami up from the depths (Dean cringed that pinky back and curled that piece of foot at the drop below his--now Michael's--feet); raping Cas.

There was little Dean could do to stop Michael, though he nearly extinguished his small and dimming light in the effort. He raged when Michael first caught the flit of Cas's wings across his sky. He tried to distract him, screaming about a coven a town over; an undisclosed plan of Sam's--now Lucifer's; anything to turn the coming violence inwards rather than towards his friend.

Dean didn't stop yelling; couldn't. He yanked on the steel threads which bound him to Michael's screaming comet. He jumped on those tiny twitches he could control, wrecking that muscle in Michael's face, cramping the pinky, nearly tripping him with the twist of his foot. Michael put him down for that, down so low that when he clawed back up Michael was already inside Cas, the fire of the holy circle singeing his bare arms and thighs.

Not all the way, not everything inside, but the agony on the man's--angel's--face nearly broke Dean in two. He rushed through Michael's memories like a man runs through a bookstore, hoping to slam a friend out of the way of an on-coming bus. Throwing reams left and right to find something to shift the danger away from his friend.

Michael had played sweet, had played brother. He'd reached down into Dean's memories, ripping with massive hands those thoughts delicate, unexpressed and private and those most public of Dean's mind. He layered them, unsensing the differences between a love expressed and a love withheld; uncaring that Cas had never known him there. He threw those pieces at Cas, claiming to know Dean's true thoughts and expressing them as carnal nightmares. Dean whimpered as Michael levered another finger into the squirming angel.

Dean can't tear himself away from Cas's eyes, pleading and boring past Michael's gross curiosity, desperate to find Dean's spark. The angel was pale and beautiful against the floor of the shack, shoved against an upturned desk in the center of the holy fire, hair even darker when silhouetted by its light. Dean's stomach churned acid at the black rope around his arms, up and over the desk. Dean jumped the muscle again and Cas writhed again, kicking with his legs as Michael bore down into him.

His mouth was moving, but Michael was keeping the words from Dean's ears. Dean saw his own name mouthed and shouted out, and he shouted to Cas--just his name. He couldn't promise him anything: not that he would save him, not that he would avenge him or protect him. Nothing was what Dean had for Cas, but he kept shouting, just shouting his name through Michael's impermeable brain.

Dean couldn't bear to look away from his struggling, bleeding friend, but he threw his other senses into Michael's morasse of a memory system, trying to find a trigger, a weakness to end this. Slithering up his soul's sides, he felt the sense-memory of a thousand glances, appreciative nods at a younger angel's hips, wingspan; garrison half-jokes about soft mouths and smooth thighs. He felt a darker need, to control and rip down the shinier new one, to make him low and tired and dull. It was an old need, as old as Castiel, maybe as old as Lucifer.

Dean rapped his hands against the insides of Michael's skull, wrenching the places where their souls touched as Michael slicked his hand over himself, ensuring his entry would be smooth but not painless for the smaller angel. Dean watched him arc his hips back, pressing soft but unbending flesh to unwilling flesh. He watched Cas's mouth open wider, eyes slam shut in a scream of rage and pain. 

And suddenly Dean was surrounded by sensation. He could feel himself in Castiel, feel the awful tightness and slipping drag of too little preparation. He could feel his friend's knees in his side, shoving him, trying to dislodge him as his body, still under Michael's nearly total control, pressed inexorably in. Dean could smell the fear-stink coming from under Castiel's bound and raised arms and the kinder smells of the man--angel--he'd come to value and love far beyond their predestined companionship. Michael flipped the final sense-switch, pulling the world up to full-volume.

Castiel was grinding out:

"No, Dean, please, don't--"

Michael pressed a heavy forearm into the angel's face, muffling his cries and flashing before Dean's internal eyes a preview of the next few hours. Dean's ears rang and rang and he nearly dropped out of existence again at the thought-promises, but he clung on, hearing:

"Dean, this isn't you, I know, I just wished it had been, I wish it had been you, I wish we had this, this for each other. I wanted it to be you, I wish,"

Michael twisted his hips, wringing a terrible sound from the angel's mouth, digging in deeper and deeper. Dean knew he was changing his body's shape, making it grotesquely more painful, using force and shapes a normal human body couldn't grow and that would hurt Cas while he tried to heal from it.

"Please, Dean, please fight back, please, come back, come back to me--"

Dean had been frozen but at this he resumed his raging. He shoved his way deeper into Michael, abandoning his control over that cheek muscle, leaving the foot behind, and driving all of his force, all of his self, into that small portion of his hand. He gasped at how much it hurt, to rip pieces of himself free from Michael, leave them behind in his flight to that one slim portion, that ounce of control. He held that pain to him, and dove onwards and inwards.

He arrived, surrounding himself with the mechanics of his one pinky. Maybe it was that the moment he sank in Michael was throwing himself towards across the threshold of a bloody orgasm. Maybe it was hearing Castiel's pained grunts as Michael bumped his head off the ground, uncaring as his body shoved the angel into edge of the filthy desk with the force of his thrusts. But when Dean bore down into that pinky, he found he snapped into the whole hand and part of the arm. As Michael rode his throws to completion, Dean slammed his--Michael's--hand onto the line of holy fire, holding it there as he felt Michael claw into his back, rip through the threads of him, scatted those tiny pieces which had held together for this last, best purpose. 

Before Dean became unmade he saw his friend's eyes widen and flash in a growing blue glow. Castiel ripped from Jimmy's body, and as Dean flickered out, the motes of his shredded soul flew free of the earth on the wind of Cas's wings.


End file.
